The Journal of M Darcy, Esq, Volume 2
by S. Faith
Summary: Picking up where the first story left off, what Mark Darcy might have written during the events of the second movie, Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason. Rated M for language. Internal references are made to the first story, so you should read that first.


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**Disclaimer:** It all belongs to the strange mind of Helen Fielding. Strange in a good way, of course.

**Notes:** In the movie, Shazzer says that Mark rang up cabinet ministers and MI5 after learning of Bridget's arrest. However, IMDB points out that "MI5 is … only concerned with domestic counter-intelligence, while MI6 is responsible for foreign matters." (Fact culled from the IMDB Goofs page, www .imdb. com/title/tt0317198/goofs)

The movie timeline is not easy to figure past 13 weeks into the story (at the time of the "Ben & Jerry's" scene) but I think I've done a fairly accurate job. While the book talks about Bridget being in Thailand during the monsoon season, the movie clearly takes place while the weather is gorgeous. In Thailand, southwest monsoon season runs from mid-May to mid-October, while northeast runs from mid-October to mid-February. Summer (pre-monsoon season) runs from mid-February to mid-May, with April being the hottest month. Clearly, this is when Bridget was there. (All from the Thailand Meteorological Department, www.tmd.go.th/climate/climate02.html.) Add to that the fact that she is not wearing anything more than a summery floral dress to the Inns at Court upon her return (no jacket, and it's not overly hot) confirms that it's not autumn / verging on winter.

**The Journal of M. Darcy, Esq.  
Vol. 2**  
by S. Faith

**Tuesday 2 Jan**

I said I didn't need to continue with entries, but there's still some therapeutic value to making them. Plus as a lawyer, the notion of documentation (watching things progress with Bridget) appeals to my orderly little heart.

Anyhow. It is definitely worth documenting that for once, the Turkey Curry Buffet yesterday was actually a pleasure to attend.

I'd made the mistake of calling my mother on Saturday or Sunday, initially just to let her know I was back from the United States. I say 'mistake' only because I'd inadvertently let it slip about my night with Bridget, before I was really ready to share it. Mother was delighted in more ways than one (she'd more than once said Natasha was only interested in getting her feet under the table) and, after promising not to say anything to Bridget's mother, insisted on buying Bridget a present.

_I_ should have insisted on supervising.

Mother dropped the gift off at my place, and I only barely had time to glance at it myself before handing it over. The horror that washed across Bridget's face upon realizing I'd told my mother was astounding. She came back down from her tree when I told her of Mum's promise – only to watch her become mortified again as she lifted her very own horrible holiday jumper out of the bag.

It matched my own. This year's theme is the snowman, wearing its own scarf, the type that actually protrudes from the sweater and flaps around as one moves.

As ridiculous as it was, Bridget was touched, and she agreed to wear it to the Buffet. I must admit, it was amusing to witness the double-takes at the matching jumpers. Watching Pamela fall over herself trying to push Bridget at me again, only to have the wind taken out of her sails as I put an arm around Bridget, was an absolute delight.

Yes. A pleasure to attend.

**Saturday 17 Feb**

It has been a slightly insane few weeks. I have been spending most of my evenings (and nights) with Bridget. Her flat is cosy, which usually translates in real estate adverts as "too bloody small", but I like being there. It's more of a home than my oversized brushed steel Spartan place. We are different in so many ways, but when I'm with her it just _works_. I can't believe I almost missed out on all of it because of a rather awful set of misleading first impressions (that and a dress that looked like it should have been wrapped around a sofa cushion).

By the way, I still find her watching me as I am sleeping. I occasionally wake and tell her to stop, but secretly, it's one more quirky thing that endears her to me.

I don't usually pay much mind to the day, but we had a very lovely Valentine's Day together. Took Bridget to a delightful champagne brunch at Hintlesham Hall. Bridget tells me it's the first time in four years she's had a Valentine and said that it was the most wonderful ever. I was rather pleased with myself.

I didn't mention before but it should be obvious that I'm back at work. Caseloads remain off limits for this journal. The bump with Abbott & Abbott was apparently forgotten, glossed over, merely a trifle, etc. I guess I _am_ important enough for them to take me back with nary a word.

I've been given a new junior partner to work with. Rebecca Gillies is her name, and she's absolute genius to work with despite her twenty-two years. We've been working together on a rather large case based in Mexico. (It was in fact Rebecca who suggested the champagne brunch.)

This brings me to something of a dilemma I'm currently facing. A few nights ago, after a long day of working on a case, all of us went out for drinks. Bridget had gone out with her friends, so I had no pressing engagements elsewhere. Before too long it was just Rebecca and I remaining. When Rebecca asked if she could take me into her confidence about something that had been eating away at her, I steeled myself to let her down gently, that I considered myself spoken for, that I was flattered, and so forth. That was not the direction she went in at all; much to my surprise, she revealed I am not of the gender she's interested in. I promised not to speak a word of it to anyone, as this is something that she thinks may affect other people's perceptions of her as the new face in the office.

I _should_ tell Bridget about my friendship with Rebecca, but I know that if I do, Bridget's insecurities will kick in (she thinks there is some kind of drawback to being in her thirties and having more curves than is currently fashionable). Rebecca is very young, _very_ thin, and just the sort of woman that would set Bridget off – I do not deceive myself otherwise.

Here's the rub: if I tell Bridget about Rebecca and why she has nothing to worry about, then I've betrayed a confidence. If I don't tell her and she finds out, she'll think I'm trying to hide something from her, and the insecurities kick in, repeat loop as necessary.

Shakespeare would be proud of this comedy of errors.

**Monday 19 Feb**

Oh, _God_. Rather embarrassing moment today at the office today. Had the Mexican ambassador, the head of Amnesty International, and the Undersecretary for Trade & Industry in the office, and we were waiting for a conference call, so when the phone rang, I answered. It was Bridget. I should have trusted my instinct and switched to the handset.

Now these three men (and all of their support staff) know that my girlfriend has vivid flashbacks of our intimate relations, and thinks I have a nice bottom.

I have no one but myself to blame, really.

**Tuesday 20 Feb**

Daniel Cleaver's now working in television as the "Smooth Guide" (world travel). I saw it on the same channel that _Sit Up Britain_ plays on. Insecurities are creeping up a little, but I trust my Bridget, so I am not overly worried. However, I _don't_ trust that bastard as far as I could throw him. (Hm. _Have_ thrown him.)

**Thursday 22 Feb**

The choice of telling/not telling Bridget has been taken out of my hands.

Had to call and put off dinner with Bridget last night due to work, the venue of which had been moved to my own home. The group of about a dozen of us were just about to get started reviewing the strategy of the case when Rebecca enters the room with Bridget in tow, the latter looking like she's been crawling around in the garden.

We went to the kitchen to talk. She'd heard from a friend that I had brought Rebecca to my home, and the mad triumvirate of Shazzer, Jude and Tom convinced her to come to here at once. I think she was relieved to find a roomful of lawyers with me as well as Rebecca, but I could tell her hackles were up. I wasn't angry – after all, if most of her relationships have been with men the likes of Daniel Cleaver, it's going to be hard to break an old habit of distrust when a man is in the proximity of a beautiful woman.

Wrapped up work as quick as I could, got rid of my colleagues, and took Bridget to a proper late romantic dinner. By the time we got back to her place and went to bed, I think she had all but forgotten about Rebecca (I know I had). This morning was comical, with her attempting to dress under the bed sheet, which was pointless as I had seen it all before, and I persuaded her to discard it. (One thing I fancy about Bridget is the fact that she is shaped like a real woman, not a sharp-angled stick figure with a few bumps in the correct anatomical places. She calls them her "wobbly bits". To-may-to, to-_mah_-to.)

I have a foreboding feeling that this will come up again.

Ah, have asked Bridget to the Law Council Dinner next Friday. Had almost completely forgotten, and women tend to like to have to time to find a suitable dress. Men have it easy with tuxedos.

**Saturday 3 Mar**

Kind of a rough night last night.

The Law Council Dinner was, in and of itself, not entirely unpleasant. Bridget (looking gorgeous in gold satin, I must say, except for an initial makeup disaster) made an impression of another sort, sticking her foot in it and calling some of the other lawyers "balding upper middle class twits" (I don't agree with some of their reactionary ideas, either, but I know better than to say so). I think she resented not being able to sit next to me and that I'd spent some time talking to Rebecca but not to her. (I'd also been speaking to Giles, Derek, Horatio, Camilla, _et al_., but I suspect she resented my conversations with Rebecca the most.) I tried to explain that that's how one comported oneself at these dinners.

It was then we had our first big row, ending up with her calling me an arrogant ass and wondering if she hadn't made a huge mistake letting me into her life, then storming off towards her flat. After a few minutes of consideration, staring out over the Thames, I headed there myself. I had been irritated but realized that it had been her first foray into my social sphere, and it was unfortunately not a good fit.

She was slow to answer because she was speaking on the phone (to Jude or one of the other Dating War Council, or so I thought at the time). It certainly seemed as if she was in no hurry to talk to me and I began to doubt she'd let me up at all.

I am not sure precisely what turned the tide in my favour. It might have been telling her that I loved her. (This is me, being facetious.) I realized I have for a long time and had not ever said the words. I repeated myself a few times at her request; she acted as if she hadn't heard, but I have my doubts that's why she wanted me to say it again. She came down to let me in, presenting me with a key of my very own to her flat. We went upstairs and had a long round of make-up shagging. (Oh, God, there's that word, creeping into my vocabulary. Save me.)

In a drowsy, post-coital state this morning, I came perilously close to proposing marriage. In the stark light of day, I realize I am by no means ready to jump into that adventure again just yet. This has everything to do with me and my failed first marriage, and nothing at all to do with Bridget. Instead I am off to plan a skiing mini-break for the two of us, which is what I actually ended up asking her. Bridget tells me she is an expert skier, but I suspect an exaggeration at play.

When I came home, I realized with laughter that while I'd been busily buzzing at her front door, she had been speaking on the phone to me. Rather, to my answerphone. Babbling on nervously, begging me not to chuck her, then saying if I hadn't chucked her to behave better in future. (I'm still smiling as I write this.)

**Monday 5 Mar**

I happened to mention I was looking for a suitable skiing getaway location next weekend and Rebecca piped up at once to recommend a lovely spot in Bavaria. After I had gotten it booked, she and Giles announced they'd decided they were going to book for the same weekend. Giles' wife recently left him, so I can understand his wanting to get away (plus, I think he has rather a crush on Rebecca; I wish I could tell him not to get his hopes up). Rebecca's reason is not as clear; I can only guess it has to do with the unrequited feelings she has for someone, which she'd recently confessed to me.

I didn't feel it was my place to tell them they couldn't. Now, I'm imagining Bridget's reaction at finding out our mini-break is turning into a group holiday.

It's a big ski resort. Perhaps we shall not encounter each other.

**Sunday 11 Mar **

Ski weekend was a total fiasco. Where to begin?

Bridget could not relax because of Rebecca's presence, took exception to the fact that I hadn't told her they'd be there. She's an abysmal skier and didn't have a hope of keeping up with me, yet resented my taking the slopes with Giles and Rebecca. (Why didn't she just _say_ she couldn't ski? I could have planned a weekend in Prague or Paris!) Let us not forget the Great Baby Panic & False Alarm, three concentrated minutes of arguing over conflicting concepts of parenting, which left a level of uneasiness and tension that lasted all weekend. There was nothing more awful than lying in bed beside her that night, unable to sleep, unable to take back the words, not knowing how to make it better. I should have tried harder – why didn't I just turn over and kiss her, apologize, hold her in my arms? Stupid reserved English nature. I do love Bridget, but sometimes I think we may be too different and not good enough at bridging the distance. Or perhaps I take too much for granted.

She spent a good portion of the next day in the lodge sipping grappa while I took advantage of the skiing. I didn't feel she wanted me there with her. Before I knew it we were on the plane back to England, going through the motions, engaged in small talk as I read the financial times.

It will feel strange sleeping alone in my own bed. Strange and lonely.

Tomorrow is lunch with her parents. It's going to feel like a charade if we don't work it out.

**Monday 12 Mar**

Not much to say right now. Bridget's just left, and we're apparently through. I have no words.

**Sunday 1 Apr**

I couldn't bear to talk about this before. I should get this down, for Therapy's sake.

We drove up to her parents' in silence, not knowing how to broach the subject, to fill the big empty hole of nothingness that had yawed between us since the ski trip. Lunch was awful. Bridget's parents had invited my parents and before I knew it there were queries of when those wedding bells were going to ring. I honestly said we weren't thinking about it, and Bridget… ah, I could tell her concurrence was too overenthusiastic to be honest. (It occurs to me only later, in a flash of clarity and understanding, what she claims she would have said "no" to if I'd asked her at the Law Council Dinner, especially after Jeremy told me, as we spoke of this fiasco, that he'd actually proposed to Magda at one.)

Another silent drive home, where we exchanged glances but never actually said anything.

It was making me crazy. As soon as we arrived back to my house, I poured us each a glass of wine, excused myself to use the loo, every intention of having a reasonable, adult conversation when I came out.

As I returned to the kitchen, I was confronted with the question that must have been haunting her neurotically for weeks: was I or was I not having an affair with Rebecca Gillies? Part of me wanted to burst forth with the truth, but I could not in good conscience do so. Mostly, I was upset that she would think I would be capable of such a thing, and told her I would not dignify the question with an answer.

Which, in retrospect, was clearly the wrong thing to say. Bridget bolted for her overcoat and headed for the door, stopping only when I pointed out that she had mine on.

She claimed that if you could think of three reasons why you shouldn't go out with someone, that they shouldn't go out. It was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard. Do I care that she can't ski or ride? Have I not already said that I prefer her with curves? Yes, she does embarrass me at times (to wit: praising my bottom in front of the Mexican Ambassador), but it's something I had accepted as a part of having her in my life.

Of course, she felt compelled to point out that I am not perfect either (which I am the first to admit), and I thought the ground rules had been established very early on, but it still hurt for her to say I looked down my nose at everyone and everything; that I was incapable of spontaneity; etc. Bringing my habit of folding my underpants into the discussion was totally unnecessary. It wasn't as if I mentioned her habit of smoking when she thought I didn't know she was.

Then we came down to the heart of the matter: "Do you _want_ to marry me?"

There was no easy answer to this, and anyone who's ever had a failed marriage knows it. Especially when one's first marriage disintegrated merely a week after the wedding. It was not a question of wanting to be married again, but was I _prepared_ for marriage again? I tried to find the words; God knows I tried. I only managed to say "Look, I…" before realizing that trying to communicate this to someone who's never been married is like trying to communicate in Portuguese to a Mongol on the Steppes.

She mistook my lack of response for a negative.

The killing blow was that she accused me of not being able to muster the strength to fight for her. I was stunned speechless. I would do just about anything for her. I had abandoned a prestigious senior partnership in New York for her! And if she was being literal – well, I could only think of all of those blows I landed on Daniel Cleaver on her behalf.

And with that, she left. This time I did not follow. I was angry but even more I was upset. I went back to the kitchen to retrieve my wine and lick my wounds, trying to think about what to do, when I noticed the message light blinking on the answerphone. I played it and my heart dropped into my shoes when I realized it was a message from Rebecca, inviting me for a nightcap. Since the message light hadn't been blinking when we came in earlier, Rebecca must have called while I was in the loo, must have been what triggered Bridget's attack on me. No matter. If Bridget cannot trust in my fidelity, I'm not sure there is much more I can say or do, anyhow.

I went for a walk to clear my head, but it did not help much. It's a good thing I have work to throw myself into. I'm sure otherwise I'd be prone to sitting on the sofa, staring out of the window, and wondering what went wrong.

**Thursday 12 Apr**

Had Rebecca over for dinner after work. She's been a good friend during this nightmarish post-breakup period. I must admit we got a bit pissed, not something I do often, commiserating over the trashed states of our hearts. And that was when Rebecca dropped an even bigger secret on me like a bomb: Rebecca's unreciprocated crush was – rather, _is_ – on _Bridget_. We have been mooning over the same woman.

I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Bloody hell. I have moved straight on from Shakespeare to being in the middle of a low grade French farce.

**Monday 23 April**

Mother tells me Daniel's show, "Smooth Guide", is soon to feature a female co-host: Bridget. Their first show together is going to be on Thailand – obviously, they will be traveling there together. Bridget may have grown cold towards me, but I hope she has at least not forgotten what a smooth-talking liar he is.

Mother seems to hold out hope for a reconciliation between Bridget and I. She is more of an optimist than I. Over a month with no contact does not bode well.

**Sunday 13 May**

Had a most worrisome phone call today (followed by an even more upsetting meeting) with Bridget's friend, Sharon, who'd gone on holiday to Thailand and had traveled with Bridget. It seems that Bridget was detained from boarding her flight back to England, never made it to the plane, and is still there, presumably in custody. I made a phone call to my contacts in law enforcement, and was able after several redirects to determine that she'd been detained for drug smuggling.

I couldn't conceive it to be true, and when I told Sharon, she went white and murmured the name, "Jed". I pressed her for information on Jed; turns out he was a bloke that she had hooked up with Thailand, who'd taken them for "magic mushroom omelets" and, in retrospect, must have been setting Sharon up to be an unwitting drug mule. (Sharon said something about him being fifteen years younger than her, how could she have been so blind and stupid, and so forth.) When I asked her how it came to be _Bridget_ that had been caught with drugs, she thought for a moment, then blurted out, "Fucking-fertility fucking-snake fucking-_bowl_!" After she explained what she meant by that, I rang up a couple of cabinet ministers and MI6 to see what sort of lead they had on a known smuggler called Jed who works out of Thailand.

I'm now waiting to hear back. I can't sleep. Punishment for drug smuggling is very severe in Thailand. Small mercies she's not in Singapore, where they execute drug smugglers.

(Later)

MI6 has no information. In the morning I'm heading for Interpol in Lyon.

**Tuesday 15 May**

Remembered to stash this into my briefcase. Interpol's information currently places Jed in Dubai, where it's terribly difficult to get criminals extradited from. I am on my way there now.

**Saturday 19 May**

Checkmate.

Once I'd landed in Dubai, I rang the Home Secretary, who rang the UK Ambassador in Riyadh, who in turn put pressure onto Dubai officials. They impounded Jed (real name: Roger Dwight) after my identification, and sent him into Saudi Arabia. The police and I were waiting for him. Jed's being extradited to Britain, and I am on my way to Bangkok to make sure Bridget is freed. (I think have accumulated more frequent flier miles in the last six days than I have in the last two years.)

Seeing Bridget will be difficult. Sharon let it slip that Bridget spent a good deal of time with Daniel Cleaver, and had come in very, very late the night before they left, quite possibly didn't come back at all until morning. If that is the choice she has made, I must accept it, as much as it hurts me. I don't want her to think I'm trying to get her freed to curry favour. It's just… God only knows why, but I still love her.

**Wednesday 23 May **

(I think. I've lost track of what day it is.)

I'm now on a plane back to London after seeing Bridget. She looks so pale and drawn, and tried to put on a brave face but was, in her own words, "scared shitless." She positively identified Jed (a formality at this point, as Jed has confessed). I'm afraid I was rather colder and curter than I ought to have been. It was especially harsh of me to mention that I knew about the hallucinogenic omelets, her reconciliation with Daniel Cleaver – and saying that her sex life was of no concern of mine couldn't have been further from the truth. I told her I was just doing this because I was in the area on a Foreign Office case, when in actuality I wanted to throw my arms around her and hold her, tell her it would be all right and that I'd be getting her out.

Maintaining the false level of indifference that I did was so, _so_ difficult, but I felt it necessary. What helped me to maintain that remoteness (beside the reason noted in the previous entry) was that I didn't want to appear as anything more than a lawyer to the Thai officials, who confirmed to me prior to my meeting with Bridget that they were dropping all charges because Jed has been secured. When I told her she would be home in a week's time, she seemed to have no reaction except to slide her hand across the table towards me, withdrawing it when I did nothing in return. As I was being escorted out, she called my name. I looked back to her, she thanked me with tears in her eyes, and my heart broke into a million pieces, even as lied and told her I was just the messenger.

I thought after ensuring her freedom that I would be able to sleep for more than a few hours at a time, but I'm finding that not to be the case.

**Friday 25 May**

Rung up Sharon as soon as I was back, and she burst into tears the minute I told her Bridget would be home within the week. It struck me just then how much those friends of hers really do love her, how loyal they are to her. Sharon broke down and confessed how sorry they (she, Jude and Tom) were to have misjudged me, how thankful they were for my efforts, and how good I was for Bridget, not like that "fucking bastard Daniel Cleaver" (her words, though they might as well have been mine). It's a hollow victory.

That's when she revealed that he'd boarded the same flight as Sharon, that he'd gone through the same checkpoint at the very same time. He must have watched the Thai officials take Bridget into custody and done nothing to help. Not a bloody thing.

Being a top human rights lawyer gets one's foot in the door on many levels. I discovered from the television station that Daniel is filming another "Smooth Guide" at a local art gallery. I'm about to pay him a visit.

(Later)

Ashamed to admit, the confrontation with Daniel Cleaver came to blows. We ended up in a ruddy _fountain_ and I was nearly driven to drown him in the calf-high water when he admitted that he had not managed to seduce Bridget in Thailand. The only reason I believed him is because I realized she was trying to tell me the same thing in the meeting room in the prison. My mind is still reeling.

Inasmuch as he is an unrepenting rat bastard, he did make a rather good point about proposing to Bridget. She still occupies my thoughts after weeks without her. I'm not certain I'm ready for marriage again, but if there is anyone I want at my side, it is Bridget, though I'm not sure she'll have me back. I was an ass in Bangkok, and I'd wager whatever feelings she still had for me were extinguished that day.

Ever the idealist, Mother tells me that Bridget arrives back on Wednesday. Even if I could meet Bridget at the gate I wouldn't know what to say, but since I can't, the point's moot. That day is an all day conference with the Peruvian Secretary for Trade, his right-hand man, and their entourage. Rebecca and I have been prepping for this for weeks (she picking up the slack for me as I've been globe-hopping in Bridget's defense); I can't reschedule, and the Peruvians insist that I be there.

There have been so many late nights at work that Rebecca has practically taken up residence in a guest room instead of having to spend the time commuting home and back. I find myself sadistically wondering how Bridget would react if she knew, not knowing Rebecca's persuasion.

**Wednesday 30 May**

Was just getting ready for the big meeting with Mr. Santiago, Mr. Hernandez and the rest of the Peruvian delegation, when I glanced to my clock and realized that Bridget's plane was touching down within the hour. Funny that I should have butterflies over that and not over this major legal symposium I'm about to chair for a roomful of foreign diplomats.

I've been thinking about after the meeting more than the meeting itself. It may sound contradictory, but I'm planning something spontaneous. I'll go to her flat, tell her I want her back, and see what happens from there.

(Later)

Don't have much time to write. There's too much catching up to do. Just wanted to note that the French farce has come to its predictably unpredictable conclusion.

In the middle of the meeting with the Peruvians, there was a quiet knock on the door. I bade them enter, thinking it might be Rebecca or another associate, when much to my amazement it was Bridget, looking surprised to see me in the middle of a conference (you'd think she would be used it by now). I sat and listened to her thank me profusely for freeing her – Sharon must have told her the extent of my involvement – and all I could think about was how guilty I'd feel if she remained so obligated towards me. And then… then she said she still loved me… and as much as I wanted to keep my professional façade intact, the spark of hope that I felt must have passed over my features. I could hardly believe what I was hearing.

(Side note: she must have gone to my home first and encountered Rebecca, who must have confessed her feelings. I have no other way to explain Bridget advising me that my girlfriend is a lesbian.)

I asked Bridget to come with me into the hall, should have done so sooner but I'd been kind of thrown off balance. At the same time, I was a little disgruntled at having the grand sentimental gesture I'd been mentally planning for her go up in smoke, and perhaps a little too petulantly said that she hadn't presented me with the most romantic proposition (really, telling me she was "_available for dates"_!). She countered that perhaps it _was_ romantic because it wasn't. I couldn't argue because it was the sort of impulsive thing she'd insinuated she craved when she said I was incapable of it. So I held my breath, got to the edge of the water and prepared to dive in (figuratively speaking), telling her there was something I'd been wanting to ask for a while, because I realized it was true, no matter how much I'd wanted to deny it to myself.

And she ruins the moment by saying offhandedly, "As long as it's not 'Will you marry me?'"

Which it was. Which she realizes with absolute horror. In her own outrageous and charming way, she then attempts to re-enact the conversation to just before her deflating comment. As she stood there waiting, realizing she wasn't going to let the moment go, I screwed up my courage and asked her to marry me. She ran to me and embraced me, actions speaking louder than words could.

I did have to return to the conference, so I arranged for my car to take Bridget back to her flat. Upon my return to the delegation, I was asked by Santiago if everything was all right, and I had to admit that it was, and why. And so it came to pass that the Peruvian Secretary for Trade became the first person I shared my good news with; he congratulated me on my brand-new engagement and proceeded to move the meeting along in record time.

And now, I have snuck this journal out of my briefcase to make a quick note as Bridget runs her bath. Yes, I am sitting in Bridget's flat for the first time in weeks, and it feels like a homecoming. She has had a _very_ long day, beginning in a Thai prison, with a very long flight home in the middle, and ending as the fiancée of a top notch human rights lawyer. The post script to this story will be a hot bath and her fiancé pampering her senseless, concluding with a proper reconciliation shag.

Tomorrow, I shall buy her a ring.

**Monday 31 Dec**

It's been a while. I must really no longer need this therapy.

Bridget's sleeping so I'm taking a moment to reflect. It's the final day of the year, and so I thought it would be fitting to include an epilogue to the story.

It's amazing how much things have changed since my first entry in my first journal. New Year's Eve two years ago didn't even bear mentioning; I was consumed by residual thoughts of my ex-wife and that dreadful anniversary – which, by the way, passed unnoticed altogether this year. That is significant.

Rebecca… I still see her occasionally but she is no longer working directly with me. I think such close quarters was more than she could bear, a reminder of what wasn't going to be. She's working with Jeremy now, and I am now assisted by a bright young twenty-five year old called Nigel, who has rather a lot in common with Tom. Bridget finds this amusing and wants to set them up. (Apparently, Tom's on-again-off-again boyfriend is a little on the creepy side.)

Today was Bridget's parents' reaffirmation of vows. Bridget looked stunning. I was initially afraid that seeing her standing up there would cause me to break out in a cold sweat, but I didn't. I note this as it not only shows progress, but confirms I did the right thing in proposing.

The time between early March and the end of May seems little more than a bad dream now. No more self-help books or second guessing: we actually talk. There have been no more major rows or misunderstandings. I do still find her staring at me while I'm sleeping. She still deliberately unfolds and badly refolds my boxers, can't cook an egg to save her life, and sneaks cigs on the sly.

I have heard it said that one _likes_ for good qualities, and _loves_ despite bad ones. Hm. That sounds about right, all around.


End file.
